CHAPTER 15 #2
“Friends touch,” he said against my hair, his tone lighter again. “It’s perfectly legal.”
I huffed a shaky breath despite myself.
His hand slid up my back, and something in me gave way. I melted into him, my forehead resting against his shoulder as I breathed in the faint scent of his cologne.
And just as soon as I did, I felt a rush of guilt.
This was too easy.
When Jagger pulled back, he gave me that faint, knowing smile again. “I’ll see you later,” he said before striding toward the door. It closed behind him a moment later, leaving the apartment quiet again, and I stood there staring at the spot where he’d been, my chest tight and . . . missing him.
Jagger
Breaking into an office at two in the morning was not how I’d pictured my day ending. But when your city is most likely under investigation because of a news article . . . you have to plan your crimes accordingly.
Paulie Bellino’s casino sat on land we intended to own, so I was simply ensuring that when it changed hands, the paper trail would make it look innocent . . . not like theft.
The hallway smelled like industrial cleaner and stale cigarettes soaked deep into carpet that had seen too many bad bets. The air hummed faintly with recycled ventilation and the distant clatter of machines on the gaming floor below.
It was easy to see why people were flocking to our casinos and not this guy’s if this was how he kept his management floor. I was going to have to soak myself in a vat of sanitizer after this.
I crouched by the office door, sliding a card along the seam of the doorframe.
“Remind me again why I’m the one handling this?” I muttered into the earpiece.
“Because,” Cruz replied calmly, “Maddox is persuading a supplier who forgot who he answers to, Gage had a Bureau thing, Lawson is scrubbing digital footprints, and I’m managing fallout on three fronts.”
The lock clicked open, and I pushed the door in slowly. “So I got the sticky carpet?”
“Leadership,” Cruz said evenly, “means sometimes you do the messy things yourself.”
Snorting quietly, I stepped inside. “Interesting philosophy. Because if the leader is supposed to be doing the messy things, I feel like you should be the one elbow-deep in whatever nastiness is waiting in here.”
I could hear his grin through the phone. “I delegate strategically sometimes,” he admitted.
“There it is,” I scoffed as I moved farther into the dark office, letting my eyes adjust.
The room was bigger than it needed to be for someone of Paulie’s stature, compensatory square footage obviously masquerading as power.
Every surface screamed excess. Heavy lacquered wood paneling climbed the walls, but it was trimmed in thick bands of brassy gold that caught even the faintest light and reflected it back in greasy glints.
The carpet was some deep burgundy monstrosity patterned with swirling filigree, like a rejected casino floor sample.
Framed photos of Paulie grinning beside athletes he’d clearly paid to stand there covered one wall, the gold frames thick enough to double as blunt weapons. And that crystal decanter set over there . . . it had definitely been handled with unwashed hands.
The smell hit a few steps in, and I stopped dead.
“What,” I said slowly, “the fuck.” The air was actively offensive. Like old food had gotten drunk and died in here. I took another step, and my boot stuck to something. I looked down and saw I was standing in a puddle of crap that had once been liquid and had been left to rot.
“What’s going on?” Cruz said distractedly.
I nudged the sticky patch with my toe. It made a wet, peeling sound that I never wanted to hear again. “I am standing in what I can only describe as a biohazard.”
Cruz practically giggled, and it echoed in my ear like betrayal.
“I hate you,” I said flatly, stepping around the desk. “I want that noted in our official friendship record.”
“Do we have one of those?” he asked.
“You’re the stalker in this relationship, so I’m not sure why you’re asking me. You’re the one who has one.”
He snorted but didn’t deny it . . . and as usual I had concerns. I just didn’t have time to deal with those concerns as usual.
“Describe the room,” he demanded, still laughing.
“I’m not—”
“Describe it.”
I sighed and covered my nose with my sleeve so I didn’t pass out.
“There’s a half-eaten sandwich on the desk.
No plate. Just . . . bread and something that could be that bologna they sell in yellow plastic at the grocery store, but it also could be decaying flesh.
I’m not sure. There’s a smell that suggests mayonnaise was once here, but a rabid rat most likely died in it. ”
“How do you know it was a rabid rat?” Cruz asked.
“I can sense it,” I mused as I continued to look around.
“I’d also like to note the three half-full takeout containers next to the sandwich, all different cuisines, none of which should ever meet.”
“Diversity,” commented Cruz.
“Decay,” I corrected. “And—” I froze.
On the corner of the desk sat a small pile of condoms, some still glistening with lube and semen, their edges curled and crusted where the latex had dried.
A few had burst open at the tips, the thin film sagging like used skin, the insides smeared and leaking onto the wood in sticky little puddles that had already started to congeal.
They weren’t even hidden—just left there like cigarette butts in an ashtray, proof that someone had fucked on this desk and hadn’t bothered to clean up afterward.
“Oh, for the love of—”
“What?” Cruz asked eagerly.
“He fucks in here.”
“Why exactly are you surprised by that?”
“Because I can’t imagine a woman willingly approaching his dick,” I answered. “And by the used condoms he left on his desk . . . it’s happening frequently!”
Cruz made a choking sound. “Used condoms?”
“There’s also lube and a sock in here,” I said. “I don’t know why the sock is here. Scratch that . . . I don’t want to know why it’s here. But everything is sticky, and I hate it.”
“You could’ve been a lawyer,” Cruz offered.
“I still could be,” I shot back. “My opening statement would simply be, ‘Your Honor, Exhibit A is the crusted condom graveyard. I rest my case.’”
“I’m sure that would work well,” he answered helpfully.
I moved around the room, careful where I stepped, cataloging the damage like an investigator who’d reached the end of times. The couch against the wall looked as if it had seen things. The leather was cracked and stained, and I was 90 percent sure something was growing in the crease.
“Remind me again that we really want this casino so we can tear it down, expand one of ours, and make billions,” I muttered. “Oh, and keep it away from the Irish.”
“You’re not allowed to lose your nerve, Thatcher,” Cruz said. “You’ve already made it past the used condoms. You’re practically in the homestretch.”
“I still have to touch something,” I griped.
I reached into my jacket and pulled out the folder Lawson had prepared.
It was filled with photos and bank statements .
. . and contracts that would look very ugly in the hands of the right authorities.
All I had to do was plant them where they’d be found, and Gage would make sure the police and the Bureau handled the rest.